


Spillover

by Vultoni_and_Arnaera



Series: VnA’s Fic Dump - HSC Edition [9]
Category: Henry Stickmin Series (Video Games)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Character Death In Dream, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Gunshot Wounds, Henry Stickmin Knows about Alternate Timelines, No Beta, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Other Endings Mentioned, Platonic Cuddling, Post-Canon, Toppat King Ending | TK (Henry Stickmin)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:53:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27914833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vultoni_and_Arnaera/pseuds/Vultoni_and_Arnaera
Summary: Henry's abilities are strange. Incredibly useful and sometimes painful, but undeniably strange. After so long of having them, he believes he knows every in and out of his odd ability to manipulate time.One thing he never considered was the effect they'd have on other people. He's been alone for so long that it never occurred to him that adding something as significant as his close companions to the equation would change things.And change things they do, just not in a way he could imagine.Henry's visions of other timelines bleed over into the dreams of his close friends.He never wanted them to see this.
Relationships: Ellie Rose & Henry Stickmin & Reginald Copperbottom & Right Hand Man
Series: VnA’s Fic Dump - HSC Edition [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2002828
Comments: 8
Kudos: 122





	1. A Bloody Dream Shared

**Author's Note:**

> Platonic fluff and angst. One of my favorite combinations to write.
> 
> I've got so many fics in the works for these four. I am soft for the idea of them being close, either platonically or romantically.
> 
> Warning: mentions of canon character death in the form of the fails. Non-explicit gun violence and blood.
> 
> Feedback of any kind is always appreciated!

The TV was a low buzz in the background, creating mindless white noise that drown out the ambient sounds of the station. The screen was turned away, casting a square of light across the wall. It was the only source of light in the room, all others off or dimmed. Even his cybernetic eye barely glowed in the darkness.

The comfortable pile they were collapsed in was warm and pleasant. After a long and tiring day that left energies sapped and minds exhausted, it was gratifying to finally rest. Sleeping in a pile like this was new and unfamiliar but not unwanted, the natural conclusion to a day that left them all too tired to go back to their individual rooms and crashing in Henry's executive suite.

Right carefully shifted Ellie, moving her so she wouldn't wake up with the imprint of his metal shoulder on her face. That would be wildly uncomfortable for her, not to mention it would raise a lot of questions they weren't ready to answer.

He should probably get something to cover his augmentations if they were going to keep doing this, because no matter what the other three said, sleeping on something metal could not be comfortable.

Maybe a padded jacket or vest?

He'll bring it up with the fabrication department later. Mrs. Blue ran the place in a tight shift and he could trust her to stop any rumors from getting started. A request like his would be fulfilled and then forgotten with no gossip surrounding it.

There was movement against his other side and he looked over. Henry had managed to shift so he was pressed against his organic half, his back flush with the side of Right's chest. He was dozing peacefully, unhindered by the bony elbow in his side.

Right almost winced in sympathy. He knew first-hand how sharp Reginald's joints could be, having woken up many times to an elbow or a knee digging into him.

A fuzzy contentment settled over him. The room was warm and quiet, the silence only broken by soft snores and sighs. He drifted off, lulled by the comforting heat of their warm bodies pressed against his.

* * *

_Right incinerated a group of soldiers, feeling the kickback of his laser cannon jar up his metal arm. Beside him, Ellie lay down covering fire against the troops. Her aim was good, and the rank she was firing on broke apart._

_She darted out of the rocket's long shadow, running toward one of the military jeeps. He only watched long enough to see her flip the driver out onto the pavement. The man didn't get back up._

_He pivoted, clocking a soldier trying to sneak up on him across the face with his organic hand. She fell back, cursing, but he didn't give her the chance to try anything else._

_The rocket would be launching soon. Everything they'd worked for would soon come to fruition. They just had to fend off the military long enough to get off the ground._

_He knelt down, snagging the radio from the soldier's blood-stained shirt and listening in._

_"The Chief is down. I repeat, the Toppat Chief is down. All units, move to phase sigma."_

_What was left of Right's blood ran cold. He looked up at the control tower, swearing harshly in his head. A military helicopter was pulling back from the window at the top of the structure._

_He was just with Henry. Not five minutes ago they were all together in the control room._

_There was still a chance. "Down" could mean a couple things, not all of them fatal. If he was still alive then Right had a duty to keep him that way._

_If not, well he needed to know that too. There were contingencies in place for just such a situation._

_Right dropped the radio and engaged his flight systems. He dodged another chopper, blasting the gunner before he could open fire. He'd blow the whole thing out of the sky if there wasn't a risk of it landing on someone below._

_He maneuvers around the ledge of the upper part of the tower and finally brings the control room into view. His heart drops at the sight._

_Most of the window glass is gone, shattered by a hailstorm of bullets. The shards were scattered carelessly into the room, twinkling like stars among two growing puddles of blood._

_Almost everything in the room was damaged, perforated by bullets. That included the two bodies, one dressed in black and gold and the other in more modest grays and golds. Right's heart feels like it stops altogether._

_They were dead. **They were both dead.**_

_He numbly steps into the destroyed control room. It felt like an eternity ago that he stood here with Reginald, Henry, and Ellie. In reality, less than ten minutes had passed._

_Right reaches Henry first. He's sprawled on his back with countless gunshot wounds in his chest. The white of his dress shirt is stained red with his own blood. He's still clutching his rifle as if prepared to throw himself back into the fight._

_The gun had recently been fired, his sensors tell him. He'd gone down fighting like a true Toppat. Right gives him a moment of silence, just one, before moving on._

_Any hope he had left for Reginald's survival disappears as he stands over him. His blood is spreading across the floor, spilling freely from his wounds. He'd clearly been ducking in cover but been gunned down regardless. Right wants to properly say goodbye and grieve for him but there's no time._

_The chief and his right hand are dead. That leaves the third-in-command to lead._

_Right is now chief of the Toppat Clan, and he'll be damned if they died for nothing._

* * *

Henry jolts awake, the lingering feeling of being sprayed with gunfire still clinging to his sleep-addled mind. He doesn't like any of the failures per say, but he hates that one in particular. Any of his choices that gets one of his companions killed were the worst, making him choke on the guilt of indirectly murdering someone he holds close to his heart.

And that one...

He was used to his terrible aim getting him killed. It was just a fact of life for him. The sun rose every morning, the moon came out at night, and using a ranged weapon would always backfire on him, sometimes literally.

But Reginald had been relying on him, trusting him to get them out alive and he had failed. They'd both ended up shot full of holes in the control room because he couldn't aim well enough to kill one man.

There was a reason he'd taken up extensive weapons training once they had settled onboard the station, especially when it came to improving his aim. He couldn't let that happen again, even if he corrected it with his next choice. 

He finally shook off the last of the sensations, getting out of his own head and back into the present.

The clock on the wall read 3:38 AM. It was early to be awake, but his nightmares often woke him up even before this. When he wasn't dreaming of dead timelines, regular night terrors took their place.

That's all very standard though. What's not is the feeling of warm bodies resting against his.

He freezes up for a moment, the unfamiliar sensations making him go rigid with apprehension.

Then he recognizes what he's perceiving. He feels warm points of contact: the leg and arm under and draped over him, his back pressed against someone, his feet brushing against warmed metal. He hears the quiet sounds of breathing and occasional shifting.

They'd fallen asleep together again, all curled together in a mess of tangled limbs, some flesh and some not.

Despite the remnants of the heart-shattering nightmare still lingering, he feels a sort of peace. They were here, alive and unharmed. No one had died because of his incompetence. He could feel them all close, and the thought leaves him feeling lighter.

Maybe a little too close, judging by the elbow embedded in his side.

But that was okay. It wasn't that uncomfortable and being able to feel the heartbeat through it did wonders for his worry.

Reginald was fine. He was here, half sleeping on him, not dead on the floor of the control room.

It made him feel better, even if it was just a little bit.

Henry gently reaches over and rests his hand on the arm. Reginald stirs but doesn't wake as he curls his fingers against the limb.

It makes it more real, a grounding reminder of his place in the timeline.

In no other ending would Reginald ever let him get this close. Nowhere else do they have the same connection, the same trust and love for each other. Even in the other reality where he kept his leadership, it wasn't the same.

He'd seen through his otherself's eyes their relationship. It was more like the bond between co-workers. Cordial and friendly, but not with the same deep-running affection it held for him.

It left him feeling empty when he snapped back to his own timeline.

Henry didn't know what he'd do without him, without _them._ They'd slipped past his defenses like the criminals they were, made him care about other people for the first time in who knows how long.

He hadn't cared during the launch, had only wanted to get the station launched and get away from the military. Any thought of the others had been secondary.

If he could go back and stand face-to-face with his past self he'd shake some sense into him, yell until he understood that _these people are important, damnit. You can't be reckless with their lives like you are with yours, you selfish bastard. They are **your people. You have to keep them safe.**_

Henry feels the pressure in his chest before he's conscious of it. The way it feels like his heart will beat out of his chest. The lingering guilt has festered into a knot in his lungs, making it hard to breathe.

He half-curls in on himself, pressing on his chest like he would a bleeding injury. It certainly feels like his heart is damaged.

Damaged, and they still wanted him, still wanted the selfish thief who would have betrayed them all for his own gains a year ago.

_What did I do to deserve them? Before, I did nothing but steal and lie, endlessly hurt others for my own benefits._

After what feels like hours, the grip on his chest slackens. He can breath again and takes deep, gasping breaths. He feels his tense limbs go limp.

The choking cloud is gone, but he still feels the guilt and remorse. That may never go away, not when the consequences of his thoughtless actions greet him in his sleep most nights.

It's the least of what he deserves.

He lets the despairing thoughts rest. His tired mind shakes them loose like cobwebs from a corner. He's far too exhausted to fall into another downward spiral.

There's a shifting at his back as the person he's pressed against begins to stir, accompanied by a soft whirring sound.

Right was waking up.

Henry shifts away, not wanting to crowd him. His personal space was something they all respected, not touching him or getting too close without permission.

That's why his agreement to this new arrangement was so special. They didn't want to leave him out, but if it made him uncomfortable then they wouldn't push. Sleeping in close proximity with three other people was far beyond Right's usual comfort zone.

But he still said yes. And if this would help him be more comfortable then Henry wouldn't hesitate.

The hand that lands on the back of his neck almost makes him jump out of the bed.

A rough-skinned hand but the touch is gentle, almost caressing. He shifts, looking over his shoulder at the source of the touch.

It's Right, still half-asleep and reaching out to him.

Henry is confused but not complaining. Right hardly ever initiated physical contact. Any time they'd been in close proximity that wasn't an emergency was always initiated by him, with Right's consent of course.

But he was still mostly asleep. That was likely messing with his judgement, making him do something he'd never do when fully awake.

Even still, having Right's hand on him, almost clinging to him made Henry's heart melt. Right trusted very few people and let even fewer in. Being one of those people was an honor, one he wouldn't take for granted.

He leans into the touch, feeling a thumb rub circles against his vertebrae.

There's a low rumble of a voice with a mechanical undertone, speaking an incoherent mess of syllables. Henry can't even begin to understand what he meant to say. That was okay, though. He didn't need words to understand the emotion underneath.

He's almost disappointed when Right pulls away, but he's happy that he was even comfortable enough to touch him casually in the first place. If this was all he was okay with, then Henry would respect that.

These were his boundaries, and Henry wouldn't dream of pushing them.

That's why the feeling of an arm laying across his chest shocks him. It's warm and drapes over him in a solid weight.

This is the closest he's ever been to Right. Probably the closest he'll ever be. Henry thrives on physical affection but he understands that not everyone was like that. The aversion Right had to most physical touch was something he would not press.

It was none of his business anyway.

Henry lets himself relax against him and sees the arm move to thread a hand through Reginald's hair. Even if he was just in the was between the two of them, he still savored the feeling.

Anything was better than the cold loneliness his dreams sometimes showcased, being infinitely alone as a cost for wealth.

Ironic that he took over the Toppat Clan for exactly that reason, for the power and money the position gave him, and found something worth so much more. As cliché as it sounded, the real treasure he found had no monetary value but was the bonds he'd formed with them. They were his precious council, their friendship priceless and irreplaceable.

Those other versions would probably laugh at him for his sappy thoughts, for how close he let himself get.

Let them laugh. He had all he needed right here. The power was secondary to them. It always would be.

They've changed him, flipped his priorities on their heads. He wants to protect them at any cost.

For once he's grateful for his power. It can help him keep them safe, keep them alive. Only he will see the failed timelines, feel the pain of his mistakes.

They were worth every bit of it.

* * *

In the next few days, they both forget, letting the dream slip from their memories. For Henry this was typical. These little glimpses of other timelines were common. The memory contained within was a terrible one, but that night was no different than any other. He didn't even give it a second thought.

For Right, it was a reminder of the 'what-ifs' that sometimes plagued him. So many ways could his close friends be hurt when he couldn't protect them. This dream was just a heart-stoppingly convincing manifestation of those fears. It had felt so _real_ , almost like a memory.

But it couldn't be a memory. After he left the control tower, Henry had appeared in the middle of the battlefield to fight back-to-back with him. And Reginald had made it to the rocket safely and was waiting for them when he and Ellie arrived in the stolen jeep. A couple times he almost brings it up, mentions the dream to them. But he knows he's just being irrational, letting a dream bother him more than he wants to admit.

If only it was the last time this happened, then there would have been no need to even think about it again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Platonic cuddle piles are one of the best tropes. Fight me. 
> 
> (don't actually fight me)


	2. Relive and Remember

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Memories, both of his reality and not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Late Holidays. I intended to have this out on Christmas Day but that didn't quite happen.
> 
> Warning: Depiction of a drunk character. Death and gun violence in the form of the fails.

The room was lit by warm light, the softer yellows being gentler than the harsh fluorescence that lined the hallways of the station and all public areas. Its easier on the eyes, a much-needed function in this particular space.

There was no need to tire out their eyes any faster while there was still so much to be done.

The scratching of pen on paper and shuffling of pages fills the silence, not dominating the tranquility but adding to it, only barely louder than the sounds of the station. The work wasn't stressful, only tedious. It seemed never-ending, always having new parts to complete, a constant stream of new tasks.

There was a lot to do, more than he could handle alone.

Good thing there was two of them tackling it, then, and the company made the monotony more bearable.

Henry set his pen down, massaging his sore wrist. They had only been doing paperwork for the past couple of hours and his hand already ached. The stack he was currently tackling was significantly smaller now though, so he considered that good progress.

It was unfortunately just a part of running an organization this big. Keeping things in order required some form of filing. And as such he spent many, many hours in this room working through the never-ending flow of new pages into his inbox.

Across the table, Reginald is working steadily through his own stack. He seems to be able to work on it for hours on end, in a smooth rhythm of reading and signing that speaks of years of experience. 

Henry isn't sure how he managed without his help before, back when they barely tolerated each other. He recalls struggling to make his way in the complex landscape of Clan politics that he'd been suddenly dropped into, to fill role that was handed to him with little-to-no guidance. There was no one he could turn to for help and the one person who was supposed to show him the ropes despised him.

He wasn't too proud to say that he had floundered in those first few months, made a lot of mistakes that didn't make him very popular with the Clan's elite. Covering it with arrogance, bravado, was all he could do to hide how lost he was. His leadership was on very shaky ground and one wrong move would have seen him overthrown. 

Henry knew that for a fact. Just one decision had cost one of his otherselves his position, gotten him formally denounced and thrown overboard.

That timeline was always painful to revisit. Exiled from the Toppat Clan, hated by one of the most important people in the world to him, and the other two dead, violently crushed.

One single choice separated him from that timeline. Some nights in haunted him, just how close he came to losing everything he cared for. Dwelling on that would be the start of an existential meltdown, though, and he didn't have time for that right now.

There is still so much paperwork to be done.

He idly chews on the back cap of his pen, reading through the next document off the stack. It was a habit he never quite managed to break, done out of stress before but remaining a behavioral tick even now.

It had gotten to the point that he found a set of textured caps to cover the back of the pen that he could safely chew on. Working the silicone with his teeth was almost relaxing. It seemed to remove some of the nervous energy that built up as he sat for hours on end.

They were mandatory after the incident where he broke the pen he was mindlessly chewing on and splattered the ink all over himself.

It was not long after the launch, maybe one or two months after. He was just starting to repair his relationship with Right and Reginald. They could stand to be around each other for more than a few minutes without devolving into arguing.

That was also the start of Reginald joining him to help with paperwork. He was there when it happened.

The ink, thankfully non-toxic, dripped in his mouth and down the front of his shirt. It got all over him, the paper he was working on, and his side of the table.

His surprised noise and the following disgusted one at the gross taste had caught Reginald's attention. He had looked up, a reprimand most likely at the ready, and frozen. Even now Henry could remember the look on his face, somewhere between disdainful and endeared.

He has snorted in a condescending manner, watching him with malice in his eyes and mirth quirking his lips.

" _Can you not do anything without making a mess?_ "

The comment was biting, sharp-tongued and petty. But the way he offered a towel to clean the worst of the mess off his face and, more importantly, out of his mouth was not as mean-spirited.

It's one of the earliest instances Henry can remember of their budding friendship, the beginning sparks of the connection they now share.

He works the silicone in his teeth, not quite chewing on it and reading through the next line on the document. It was some proposition by a group of disgruntled elites wrapped up in so much political wording and double-meanings that it makes his head spin trying to puzzle out what they actually want and what ways they were trying to screw him over for it.

The easy option would be to hand it to Reginald, a veteran in dealing with these kinds of interactions, and let him sort them out. But some part of Henry wants to prove that he can do this, stand on his own legs when handling these matters.

However, it would be best to talk it over with him before agreeing to or denying the request. He'll make his decision then discuss it with him.

That was Reginald's official position now, anyway. He was advisor to the chief, Henry's third-in-command. Asking him for help was not a sign of weakness or incompetence.

It still felt like it though, another leftover from those months before being captured by The Wall.

_He has to show he's fit to be chief, leave no doubt in their minds he could do this. If he falters even for a second, he'll be as good as dead._

Even though his position is secured now, he still feels like he can't relax. That tension, the constant need to appear in control and unshakeable is still there. He can't let his guard down some days, as if he's still one mistake from dethronement.

His council would never let anything happen to him. He knows this without a doubt, but is uneasy even to this day.

Henry realizes with displeasure that he's read the same line five times over and not comprehended it. He blinks, trying to clear his vision. That only makes the words blur on the page like smeared ink.

He huffs, annoyed, and rubs his eyes.

"Holding up alright?"

Henry lowers his hands and looks at him. He's a picture of composure and tireless work ethic. How did he manage it?

"Yeah," he says, trying to hide how his eyes are starting to cross from reading and deciphering so many documents.

By the _look_ Reginald gives him, he's not entirely successful.

"Well, it's getting quite close to the dinner bell. Care to join me? It's lasagna night and I have no intention to miss it."

Henry knows he's being led away, being kept from overworking himself. He did it all the time back then. There were times he'd go days without seeing his bed.

Once he'd passed out in the main office and woken up in his room. He still doesn't know who took him back and kept quiet about what would have been excellent blackmail material.

Hell, whoever it was could have killed him in that vulnerable state. The list of people who would pass on that opportunity was very small back then.

He puts his pen away and replaces the proposition back with the other unprocessed ones. He'll have to come back to it later.

Tackling it with a fresh mind will help it make sense. He hopes that it will, anyway.

Reginald puts a stamp on the page he was working on and slides it into the folder of completed pages. He stands, fixing his hat as he does so.

Henry holds the automatic door open for him, secretly glad that he didn't have to be the one to call for a break.

* * *

It was later than they expected when he punched the door code in, granting him access to his quarters.

Well, they weren't _his_ quarters. They were the chief's, which he wasn't anymore.

This particular room never was his, even if he planned it to be. From the very beginning this room was supposed to be his.

Reginald is surprisingly okay with it belonging to someone else.

Even if for a long time he _really_ wasn't.

"Can you hurry it up with that door? He's kinda heavy."

Ellie sounds only a little annoyed, like she was merely impatient and not trying to avoid dropping her very inebriated partner on the floor.

Said partner was having a losing battle with both gravity and unconsciousness, his head lolling as he dozed on his feet.

So Henry was a sleepy drunk. Good to know.

The door finally opens and he steps aside to let her in first. He thought they left this door nonsense on the airship. The door didn't even use a card swipe and it was still a pain to get open.

It slid shut behind him as he stepped inside. He flicked on a few of the lights at the switch, illuminating only the entrance and bedroom part of the suite.

"Thanks," Ellie says over her shoulder, half-leading and half-carrying Henry across the room.

"You're welcome," he says, then turns to the other parts of the suite, "where does he keep the hangover supplies? I get the feeling he is going to want them in the morning."

"He doesn't have any. You know he hardly ever drinks."

"Oh"

Oh indeed. Now what to do about that?

Reginald has some in his own quarters. He could go and fetch them, but his quarters are a few levels below with the rest of the elites. It would take twenty minutes down and back.

If it's for Henry, then he'll go without complaint. It's not that far considering.

"I've got some in my room, but my hands are a bit full at the moment. I can get it after he's in bed," Ellie says, cutting off his train of thought.

Or that. Problem solved then.

Though there was a more efficient way to do this.

"Pass him here. You can go fetch it while I handle him."

Ellie gives him an incredulous look, "you sure about that? You're not exactly made of muscle."

"Technically I am. And I have lifted him before, if you recall," he says, more than a little indignant. He's not just a pencil-pushing weakling, thank you very much.

"I just don't want him to end up on the floor," she replies.

She does pass him over despite that, letting him slump against Reginald. He's a bit heavy, but it's more the gangly limbs and staggering attempts to walk that make him difficult to handle.

He's not too difficult, though. It's a simple manner to steer him towards the bed.

Henry blinks blearily, tightening the arm around him.

"Reggie?" he slurs out the nickname, foot catching on the threshold of the room.

After making sure they both don't faceplant on the floor, he replies, "yes. It's me."

"Please don' drop me."

Reginald rolls his eyes. Why does everyone think he's all brains and nothing else? Being underestimated is useful at times but annoying from his close friends. He thought they knew him better than that.

"I won't drop you."

It comes out a little harsher than he intended.

Henry tenses against him, then relaxes just as quickly. He nods, the movement much more pronounced than his usual gestures.

"Thanks. Don' wanna be cold."

Cold? What did that have to do with anything?

Reginald passes it off as drunken rambling. The same with the following near-incoherent mutters. Something about metal and pink glasses?

How strange.

He gets Henry on the bed and turns away as he fumbles with his clothes. For once Reginald is glad that Henry seems to hate button-up shirts with a burning passion and goes for a different style of formal clothing. There was no way he'd be undoing any buttons in his current state.

There's the sound of fabric hitting the floor, then the shifting of covers.

A pair of arms wraps around his waist like a snare, holding tight and trapping him in place. Reginald turns, already knowing what he'll find.

Yep, it's Henry. He's got him in a death grip and is hanging half off the bed.

"How did you even do this?" he asks rhetorically, not able to keep the fondness out of his voice.

Henry just tightens his arms, clumsily gasping at his shirt.

"Yeah, alright. You win."

He walks back until his knees hit the bed. And he sits, feeling Henry shift to wrap around him more.

"So you're a clingy drunk, too. I suppose there are worse kinds to be."

Henry mumbles something unintelligible and puts his hand over Reginald's.

By the time Ellie gets back, he's been pulled down by those seeking, embracing arms. She cocks an eyebrow at the koala-cling hug Henry has him in.

"Like you would have done any different," he says softly, holding a scarred, ink-stained hand in his own.

"I didn't say a word," she fires back with no heat, sliding off her shoes and jacket to lay down on Henry's other side.

Henry shifts at the feeling of her laying next to him. He leans into her warmth almost instinctively, not being able to fathom leaving her out.

"Love you too," she says, running a hand through his hair.

He murmurs something, quiet and slurred. It sounds vaguely like a question.

"What was that?" Reginald asks, turning to him.

Henry shifts so his face isn't buried in the pillow to ask again.

"Where'sh Right?"

The missing member of their little quartet. He was noticeably absent from their cuddle pile.

Reginald pauses.

"He's-"

_Making sure those snooty elites who got you drunk for their amusement don't go unpunished._

"-busy. He'll be along soon."

And Henry doesn't question it. He simply curls back against him and resumes his losing battle with the sandman. Ellie moves so that he's held between the two of them, but only after turning off the overhead light.

It's still bright in the hallway, but not so much that they won't be able to sleep.

This wasn't where Reginald planned to sleep tonight, but he isn't complaining. Not one bit.

He settles, feeling the warm arms around him slacken as Henry finally nods off.

* * *

_He can't help but feel excited. This is it, the payoff of all his hard work. The months poured into this, his grandest scheme, were about to give rise to his greatest accomplishment and the Toppat Clan's bright, new future._

_The orbital station is about to launch. He's almost giddy with excitement._

_Reginald is already seen as one of the best chiefs the Toppat Clan has ever had. Flattering praise for sure, but this will cement his place as the greatest ever. After all, what could top launching a space station that would the give the Clan ruling over space itself?_

_Maybe he's getting a little carried away, a little ahead of himself. They've not launched yet. There's still things that could go wrong._

_And the alarm is still blaring through the launch base._

_They have an intruder. An intruder who has breached the perimeter, dodged the guards, and driven straight up the side of the rocket like a lunatic._

_Who the hell was this guy?_

_Right had gone to get the situation under control, but it will take him time to get into position. He is only human after all. A damn good one at that, but he still has his limits._

_And now the intruder was on top of the cockpit, at the very nose of the rocket._

_He couldn't seriously be trying to steal the rocket with everyone in it could he? That would be insane, absolutely crazy._

_Only a madman would attempt that, or someone with nothing to lose._

_Whoever he was and whatever he wanted didn't matter. He wouldn't get any further._

_The comm line crackles on._

_"I've got a clear shot, Chief."_

_He doesn't even have to think twice about it._

_"Yes, go ahead."_

_Even if he accidentally hits the glass, it'll be reparable. Getting rid of the intruder took priority over a little structural damage._

_For a moment it goes deathly still. It feels like the room us holding its breath as he waits by the comm. He can see muzzle flashes out in the jungle and the flashing intruder alarm on the control panel._

_He doesn't know how long he waits there. It feels far too long._

_There's other preparation work to be done, but Reginald is rooted to the spot._

_At last, a voice blasts through the speaker, loud and proud._

_"Got him! The intruder is neutralized, Chief."_

_He breathes out a sigh he didn't know he was holding._

_"Well done. Return to keeping watch and take out any stragglers."_

_"Roger that."_

_The comm line closes and Reginald smiles. Nothing was going to stop them now, not even this small hiccup._

_He pulls out his personal radio and tunes into a frequency shared only by one other person._

_"The threat has been removed. Return to the control room, Right Hand Man."_

_He gets a gruff affirmative over the line, "I'm on my way."_

_With that done he turns away from the window to address the other Toppats present._

_"Resume your previous tasks. We cannot let this distraction delay us for even a minute. We must take off before the military's arrival. Is that understood?"_

_A chorus of "yes, Chief"s rings through the room. Then they all turn back to work._

_When he speaks again to give another order, it's almost as an afterthought._

_"And send someone to remove the body from the hull."_

* * *

The dream barely wakes Henry from his slumber. Under the haze of a drunken mind, he is only vaguely conscious after the vision concludes.

Getting shot once is not the worst way to go. And a shot like that, right through the head is so fast he doesn't get the time to comprehend the pain.

And it wasn't even his death to live through. Those still suck, but they feel almost disconnected from his reality, especially one as different from his timeline as that one.

All that combined means Henry wakes for only a moment before he falls back asleep, slipping back into unconsciousness.

And missing the way Reginald blinks awake, confused by such a strange but oddly realistic dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The paperwork thing was inspired by one of my favorite fics in the fandom: Poker's "The Density of Overworked Toppats."


End file.
